Boy's Cinema (1930-31)

12 li«ve<l of duly for the day. I'll sec the warden at once, wnd obtain an order fcr a change of occupation." "Very good, sir," replied the warder, and went out, ta'king Graham with him. The medical officer made a few notes en a pad lying on liis desk, then left bis surgery and made his way to the warden's office. lie knocked at the rfioor and entered. The warden was seated in an arm- chair on the otlier side of the office, a towel round his neck. His face was lathered, and standing over him was one of the convicts, a keen razor in his hand. "Who's that?" the warden snapped. "Me—Dr. Rinewulf." "Come right in, doc," replied the w^irden. "Sit yourself down some- where. I'll be through in a minute." He looked lip at the convict standing over him. ' Got on with it," he said talmly. T)ic convict bent over him and started the shaving. The warden felt the*steady »iwcep of the razor over his face, and nodded appreciatively. "You've handled a razor before," he remarked. "You do it darned well, loo. How long are you in for?" ': " Life," was the short reply. ;j "That's tough," said the warden. '.'What for?" ^"Slitting a guy's throat," said the tk)nviet, starting to shave under the warden's chin. "The warden laughed. :. "Well, don't slit mine," he said easily. "It'll' only make more work for the doctor there." The convict finished his work, and departed. The warden wiped his face, and crossed the room to where the doctor was sitting. He looked with amusement at the doctor's face, which Was bathed heavily in sweat. "Hot?" he asked. The doctor mopped his forehead. "You're a cool one, Brady," he said. "That man might have slit you fi'om rar to ear, yet you never so much as liirned a hair." Brady grinned hugely, shaking his head. "Not him," he said. "Those trusties arc all right. They know wliat's best for them," Hi.? grin broadened. "When I tell you that 1 think I recognise the man, and that it was mo who sent him Jiore when I was district attorney, you'll see that he's as safe as a railway." He slipped into his jacket, that had been hanging on the back of a chair, and sat down at his dc>ik. " Well, doc., what's bothering you?" The doctor cleared his throat. "I have just been examining a young rnan \\ho collapsed in the jute mill, and ] would rather like you to take a look at him,'' he said. "He's a good lypc of fellow, and I think he has possibi!i:;'!es, but the mill is dragging him down. Wjll you sec him?" Warden Brady looked at the doctor admiringly. "What 1 like about you, doc, is the interest you take in the men in you- (hargo," he said i)loasantly. " Ye<, I'll .see him. Have hini sent up." "Thanks so much," said the doctor; "I will. My idea is that he needs a (hango of occupation—.something out of <loors, if you know what I moan." "O.K. I'll do my best. Shoot him ;ilong." The doctor wont away, and in about lialf an hour the captain of the guard appeared in the doorway. His name was Gleason, and he had a hard, merci- less look' in .his eyes that made liir|i TiaFcd by eVcry ibnvict in the pi-i.son. "No. 159 to .sete "yon," ho .said in a voice' that was cold and relentless. July 4th, 1931. BOY'S CINEMA "Doctoi Rincnulf said you were inter- viewing him." Brady, .^till seated at his desk, looked up from liis papers. "Bring him in," he said. "And when he's here, get out. Til speak to him alone." Gloason hesitated and withdrew. He never liked the idea of the warden seeing men alone. They might start trouble—Or worse, they might make complaints against Glcason concerning some of his unreported brutalities. Convict No. 159 was shown in. Warden Brady looked him over, and decided that he rather liiked this young-looking prisoner with the clean-cut face and the tall bearing. Even prison life had not spoilt him entirely. He was clean all through. Brady wont to his card-index cabinet, and produced No. 159's record. He took it to his desk and sat down. "Your name is Robert Graham?" he said. ' "Yes." "In for manslaughter—fourteen years. H'm!' Brady's eyes flickered over the man before him thoughtfully. "I seem to remember you. Let me think, now. Oh, yes, I remember. It was I who put you hero, wasn't it?" "Yes." _ "Got mixed up in a quarrel in a cafe. Some guy insulted the girl you were with, and you crowned him with a bottle. Manslaughter proven." Brady shrugged his shoulders. "Well, son, you had it coming to you. If anyone'd insulted my girl, I'd have done the same thing, I expect; then I'd have been where you are now. That's how things are in life." His eyes came to rest on Graham's face. "The doc's seen you, and says vou can't stand the jute mill. Is that right?" "Yes," said Graham in the same dull voice. "I hate it." "So do they all, but some are tougher than others," replied Brady evenly. "W^cll. Graham, you look the sort of guy that deserves a change. You've kept out of trouble, and that's more than most of them can do. Can you drive a car?" "Yes." The tone was a little more cheerful—a little more certain. As Brady had found in the past, humanity pays. "Got any grudge against me for put- ting vou here?" "No." "All right. You are relieved of all duty for five days, and will report to the doc. for hospital treatment. When you're better, j'ou'll come back hero and be my chauffeur. All right?" For the first time for year?, Graham's eyes began to glow. The end of the juto mill had come, and he was to have a decent occupation. "Thank you. sir," he began fervently. Brady snorted in annoyance. "If you say that again, I'll put you back in the mill," he said roughly. "No man has to thank me. There's no obligation on either side. You have a job to do, and you'll do it properly. I also have a job to do, and I'll do it the way I think. Now get out." "But " protested Graham, want- ing to express his gratitude. "Get out!" roared Brady. Graham got out. It was the safest thing to do. The Escape That Failed. W.MJDEN BRADY made a point of having as many good men on his personal stall as possible It saved him doing things for himself. He selected men who had earned tho "trusty " -badge, which meant that they were of proven good behaviour. Every Tuesday and could be relied upon to get on with their work, and not harbour thoughts of escape. Graham, in his capacity as chauffeur, had many opportunities of leaving tho walls of San Quentin behind him, but he never availed liimself of them. He was too busy winning back for himself his self-respect and faith in life. Other " trusties " on Brady's staff were Galloway, a tall, powerfully-built, and evil-looking ex-gangster, who acted as butler; three clerks who worked in the office; and a man named Fales, wko looikcd after the gardens. There was the barber, too, who acted as valet in addition. Graham's duties were light. When Brady wanted to co in to the railroad station, or when something was wanted from the adjacent town, it was Graham who took the car there and back. About a week after Graham had got his job, Brady sent for him. He reached Brady's office, to find his boss looking quite human for once. He was wearing a white flower in his but- ton-hole, and his usually stern and im- moveable face was relaxed in a smile. "Graham," he said, "I want you to go down to the station for me. I'm hung up by the prison commission, who are waiting downstairs. Meet the twelve- fifteen train, and pick up my daughter. She's on her way home from school." "Yes, Mr. Brady," he replied, and went out. He was at the station sharp on time, and the train drew in a few minutes after. He watched the alighting pas- sengers with interest, wondering how it was he had never heard of Brady's daughter before. He explained it to himself by reflecting that Brady seldom talked about Inmself—ho was not that sort of man. A girl approached the car, and stopped. " Are you from Jlr. Brady, at San Quentin?" she asked. Graham sprang out of the car with alacrity. L^^nlike Brady, she was beau- tiful, with a fresh complexion and frank blue eyes that seemed to be per- petually smiling. "Yes, miss," he said. "I'm Mary Brady,'' she went on. "Isn't father here to meet me?" "No, miss," replied Graham. "He had to attend a meeting of the prison commission, and told me to explain." "All right," she said. "Would you mind getting my grips?" He obeyed, loading her luggage in the back of tho car. She seated her- self beside him, and within five minutes they were on their way back to the prison. As he drove along the straight, flat road, he was conscious that she was looking at him with open curiosity, and somehow ho felt a thrill at her presence. It was a long time since ho had .seen anyone so lovely as she wa.s, and, his new job having softened him, he felt that there was nothing in the world that he would not do for her. They were half-way towards tho big steel gates before sho spoke. Then she said : " I haven't seen yon before. Are you " She hesitated. "Yes. miss, I am," he said quickly. "I haven't long had this job." He could sense her sympathy. "I'm sorry." she said. "You don't look tho kind who. makes a habit of coming to San Qucntiii. Was it an accident? Were you framed, or some- thing?" : '. . < "No, I wasn't frapied,'' ho replied. (ContiDued on page 17.)